A Piece of Understanding
by NeeNeeChan
Summary: ONESHOT.  Akito ponders his life and his relationship with the zodiac.  Death fic.


**Disclaimer:** The characters do not belong to me…

**A/N:** I hope this isn't too OOC… Akito's kind of a mystery to me, so it may not be, well, even passable… I know Akito is later revealed to be female, but I don't particularly care for that surprise, so he's male here. Also, sometime while I was writing this (probably in summer school), I heard a song that just absolutely reminded me of this, and I said "That's perfect!" Also in the process of completing this, I realized that the words that had so struck me as related to this were… incorrect lyrics! But it was too late to go back, so I just kept them, as intended, as the title. Oops.

Understanding. The only thing I have ever craved is, unfortunately, one of the few things I can never have. Another is love. Sure, they say they love me above all else when asked. How could they not? I am their god, the center of their world, the very core of their existence. And yet, each time, the words sound more strained and hollow, more forced, more like a lie told to keep me satisfied than an oath of undying affection and loyalty. _I_ understand that they can't always force themselves to display false love, so why can't they understand that it's harder for me to live like this than it is for them? All of them. Combined. They make no effort to understand where I'm coming form. No, they're too wrapped up in their own suffering to notice mine, despite the fact that I own them all and their suffering is mine. They are mine. But do they show gratitude, a lesser response than love but an acceptable one nonetheless? No, of course not. They have only fear and loathing for their god.

And yet, the one who hates me the most is none other than myself. I hate how I push them away, when I only want to draw them to me. Maybe, if I could catch them and keep them with me, my burden would ease. But in my pursuit of the beauty I will never have, I've broken so many of them. The light that should reside behind their eyes, the glow that should emanate from deep within their hearts, the joy behind their smiles - all gone. Now they are little more than empty shells, cold-hearted and hollow-eyed, conditioned to feel nothing. They are not real. They are merely the embodiment of an age-old curse. They serve no purpose other than to keep the curse alive and to remind me of my fate. I will die here, alone, and the only meaning it will have is that the curse of the head of the family will be placed upon some one else's shoulders, a burden they will bear all their lives.

But what about me? Not me, the figure-head. Me, the person. Does no one care about me? I bear the brunt of the curse, and yet I receive no more than a passing glance, overlooked in the shadow of their "suffering." They don't know the meaning of suffering! If they did, do you think they would treat me as they do?! No! If they knew what suffering really was, I would truly be the center of their existence, the epicenter of their very being. I would receive praise, sympathy, understanding, love. Instead, I get only empty oaths of loyalty.

Loyalty - such a hollow word, so unfeeling, so impersonal. What choice have they, after all? Without me, they could not exist. They owe their lives to me, and in exchange, I get nothing. I get a title, more empty than my heart.

I wonder sometimes: do they understand the magnitude of what I have given up so that they might live? I am the sacrifice for the many, my life given in exchange for theirs. I am their Christ, their Savior, their God. I should be their everything, yet I am nothing to them but the sick head of the family, always in need of care, the eternal whiny child always in need of coddling. I am not a child. I am an adult, fully capable of facing the truths of this world and making my own decisions, though the only important decision regarding my life was made for me. I didn't choose this path, and I don't plan to continue on it for much longer. I can feel my life, shortened for those of the cursed zodiac, slipping through my fingers like the childhood memories of so many beaches never visited.

But I won't allow it to end like this. When I leave this world, it will be on my terms.

They may control every other aspect of my dismal existence, but I hold this one shining piece above them. That's it. The last tiny shred of my control over this life, careening so out of control that nothing, absolutely nothing, can prevent it from crashing. The only thing left to decide is when. Should we let it go all the way to the end, let it fulfill its purpose? Or should we derail it along the way, save the passengers some false hope? No one ever stopped to consider that maybe that particular train should never have been started on those tracks.

I have suffered long enough.

And so it is that I find myself sitting here, once again staring out my window. My mother hung herself here, you know. Right by this very window. I used to wonder what it was she saw when she gazed outside for the last time. Did she see the beauty in the trees, the grass, the birds? Or did she just see the gate in the distance, barring her from true happiness? Or maybe it was an overcast day, as it is now, and she saw nothing but her reflection, as I see nothing but mine now. It's funny, I always told myself I hated her for leaving me alone to deal with my fate. And yet now I am considering following in her footsteps, abandoning them all the way she abandoned me. And if there is anything beyond this earthly life, I have no doubt I will hate me for it. Not for their sakes, for they mean nothing to me, really, but for my own, for having allowed myself to become like her.

But I need the control, the power rush of knowing I hold my life and the fates of thirteen others in my hands. It's strangely calming to know that with one small movement, I can end my own misery and add to theirs. I bet they will panic, rushing to find a new leader and ignoring the dead one, just another thing the curse has stolen, oh well, he's gone now, not much we can do.

Oh, but the things they could have done. And I wonder, if they'd known it would come to this, would they have done things differently?

It's raining again, small rivulets of water sliding down the glass, running straight through my reflection without so much as a pause. I don't like the rain; it turns the golden dust outside to a dark brown mud and burdens the blades of grass until they are forced to bend under its weight. The flowers close up. There's no sun, so what's the point? Why risk a watery destruction when you don't have to? That's what I'm doing, isn't it? Trying to avoid drowning by ending this journey prematurely. For who knows? Maybe those tracks did end in a lake somewhere.

The glass is cool to the touch, and I rest my forehead against it, not in the least surprised that there is little difference in our temperatures. I'm always cold.

But pressed so close to the window, I can see out into the courtyard, usually full of playing children and wary, scolding parents, now seemingly too vast for all the memories it hold sin this rain-imposed emptiness. Another reason I hate the rain. It drives everyone indoors, out of the downpour. And as much as I profess to hate the noise they make, I like the watch the children play outside my window. They're so innocent, most of them with no knowledge of the curse. They fear me no more than they would a grandparent or respected uncle. To them, I am not the center and embodiment of their misery. I am simply the head of the family, someone to be respected, of course, but also waved at, smiled at, greeted warmly. They remind me of a time I never had, though I think I would have liked to.

But that was all taken away form me, and now I will take something similar form them. I don't know exactly what will happen when I'm gone. Will the others die as well? I hope not. I want them to suffer as I have suffered for so long for their sakes. Perhaps, with my passing, they will be gifted with an understanding that this was their fault, they drove me to this. And maybe, if my part of this curse is passed on to some other unfortunate Sohma, perhaps he or she will be treated better than I was. Perhaps, in the end, my death will do some good.

Or perhaps it will mean nothing, just another name to add at the bottom of a list, casualties of the curse. Perhaps it will simply be another selfish act committed by me, their ever-selfish leader. Perhaps they will be glad to be rid of me, and for that possibility alone I would gladly leave them a hundred times over. Just for the chance to repair what I have so callously broken, I would give anything.

And so it is that I find myself here, sitting and looking out upon the rain-soaked courtyard, the only small piece of this world I have ever known, trying to decide the best way to end it. Hanging is out, for as much as she may have had the right idea, my mother is not worth emulating in that regard. In addition, I would have to wait until the rain stops to avoid getting wet. Slitting my wrists will be messy, but it may be the only sure way to get it done. I have some pills Hatori left behind, to help me sleep, he said. Pfft. Aiding and abetting is more like it. I though assisted suicide was illegal now. Maybe that doesn't apply to private family doctors…

But as it stands, I rise from my place at the window, somewhat regretful at having to leave the dreary world outside. It is beautiful, in a dark, sorrowful way, one that I have never found appealing before. But soon enough, I will never see it again. I may as well get used to it.

The bottle of sleeping pills is exactly where I left it, on the bedside table beside a glass of water. The rest of the table is starkly barren, no books or framed photographs dotting its surface. Books just depress me, reminding me of the countless lives I can't live, and there is no one I would want a picture of. Photos tend to capture only imperfections, anyway.

I grab the bottle and the water and walk back to the window, the pills rattling in their plastic prison with every step. It sounds like the bottle is almost full. Good. I was worried there wouldn't be enough to get the job done. But just as a precaution, a razorblade from the adjoining bathroom is resting on the windowsill. It looks harmless, really, this small rectangle of dull metal resting innocently beside a rain-soaked pane of glass. Innocence…

The water is cool as it slides down my throat, carrying with it my salvation. A couple of the pills stick a little. Not enough water, I guess. Or a god I don't believe in trying to tell me that this is wrong. I force them down anyway, laughing a little at the idea of defying God. I am god, at least to thirteen. So who's to dictate my actions save for me?

The bottle's almost empty now, and I'm starting to feel light-headed. But still, I force myself to continue the repetitive motions. Shake a pill from the bottle, bring it and the glass of water to my lips, swallow, repeat. It's funny. I always though killing yourself would be the highlight of your life. Instead, it's so monotonous I could simply die of boredom. If I wasn't already scheduled to die of other means, of course.

My hand shakes as I set the glass back on the windowsill, and it is no surprise to me when it crashes to the floor, exploding in a crystalline display, dangerous more for its beauty than its thousand jagged edges. Something that beautiful can kill a man, simply for the fact that upon seeing it, he will know he can never achieve that level of artless perfection.

My eyes, already drifting closed, light on the blade. Yes, it is still where I left it, though it seems much fuzzier than it did mere minutes ago. My hand fumbles for it, striking only wood several times before finally finding metal. I grab it quickly, though all my movements feel sluggish. I fight back the sleepiness and the nausea as my body tries to reject the medicine. Why didn't I just swallow the damn pills faster? God, what an idiot. Ha. That's funny.

The blade, now held up in the dimmed light filtering in through the window, seems to shine with its own light, a radiance born of desperation. That ahs to be it, because there's no way the light is coming from outside. If anything, the rain has picked up, beating the ground, the plants, and the roof with equal intensity, pounding a fierce tempo against the thin glass before me. Somewhere, the wind is howling through the trees, though it sounds distant. Come to think of it, everything sounds muted, from the rain to my labored breathing. The only thing above it all, the only sound that manages to penetrate this self-imposed fog - perhaps, even, the cause of it - is that of my heart, beating far too fast, pounding in my ears.

The dull blade feels cool against my heated skin. The blood that flows from its sharp edge warms it, though, and I know that in a moment, I will never be cold again. The cuts are deep. My vision starts to fade, and the blade clatters to the floor, the victim of unintended reflex. I would pick it up and continue, but I'm too tired to care. The floor rises up to meet me, but my arms don't seem to want to break my fall. Oh well, who could blame them? The best I can manage is to take the brunt of the impact with my shoulder. It's better than my face, I guess.

Eww… my blood is starting to seep into the wood floor. It'll stain, I just know it will. But what do I care? In fact, maybe it's for the best. At least this way, someone will regret that I was pushed to this. Even if it is just the janitorial crew.

The world has almost faded away, a dim silhouette of the window above me all that remains. It's funny. All the speculation about death said the color would be black - or white. I think some said white. But no. the color taking over my vision is neither of those, not even a compromise of gray. Instead, a dull purple is all that I see, and though it grows dimmer, the color still lingers.

But the warmth that's enveloping me is well worth the unexpected color. Funny. All I've ever wanted was a measure of warmth, enough to drive back the ever-present pervading cold. I suppose I should be grateful that I was finally granted this, even if it is only as a dying wish.

And suddenly, I am desperately afraid that this warmth is precursor to hell. It's a completely irrational fear, inexplicable in its existence as I do not believe in an afterlife, any more than I do in an all-knowing, all-powerful god. But fear is rarely rational, and despite all arguments against its existence, it wraps an iron fist around my soul.

What if this act of both selfishness and selflessness is merely another burden to them, one of many I've imposed on them in my reign as head of our family? Will this simply make them hate me more? Or will they understand that I did this for them?

That would be enough. For if I could have from them just one tiny piece of understanding, I would be absolved of the many sins I have committed against them. And so, in my final moments, I pray to a god I'm not sure exists. Not for forgiveness, or even another chance to make things right. I don't pray for those I leave behind, that they may learn to live without me, for I'm sure they'll manage just fine. No, I pray for nothing usually associated with the dead and dying. Instead, I pray only for a piece of understanding.

**A/N:** Well, that was certainly interesting… I hope there weren't too many mistakes (grammatically). I didn't read over it, and I won't. If I do, I'll want to fix every little detail, and I'll ruin it… :'( But anyway, how was it? Please review!


End file.
